


Wherever They May Be

by phantomreviewer



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Whitechapel Big Bang 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler and his team were promised the interesting cases. <i>Wherever</i> they may be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Case 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic turned into an exercise in how far can I turn my dissertation research into a viable Whitechapel fanfic. It turns out that it doesn’t take much conversion at all to turn one into the other. It’s a little, well, crime heavy. I’ve been told that it manages to read together, which I’m grateful for. I’ve based it on the Series 2 promise of Anderson to let the team take cases ‘wherever they may be’, and it follows the format of Series 3, with three different, yet linked, stories. Think of it as an alternate Series 4.
> 
> Couldn't have been achieved without the support of everyone involved in the Whitechapel Big Bang, and especially my beta, sarcasticmissy. Thanks hun!

“Skip, I think you should see this.”

 

Chandler looked up from his desk to see Miles letting himself into his office, closing the glass door behind him, voice quiet as though attempting not to shock anything out of him.

 

“Miles, come in, come in, what is it?”

 

There was a folded newspaper in Miles’ hands and he carefully placed it down on the desk in front of Chandler, making sure not to disturb the presentation of his belongings.

 

“Kent brought this in this morning; he thought it might be relevant.”

 

Chandler reached out to pick up the newspaper, unfolding it as to read what Miles was referring to.

 

Emblazoned under the title of the Washington Times, next to a photograph of an American politician- Chandler couldn’t place her immediately- were obviously the words that had worried Kent and alerted Miles.

 

_I was the Copycat Jack;” Lavender’s Last Words._

 

“Miles, what is this about?”

 

Chandler gestured to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, and Miles sank into it gratefully, knotting his fingers together in his lap as he began to talk.

 

“I’ve got Mansell and Kent looking into the case in more depth, but from what I’ve heard Lavender is Oliver Lavender, found guilty in 2010 of capital murder and sentenced to death by lethal injection. Spent three years on Death Row in Texas, and these are apparently his last words after the injection.”

 

“And he’s claiming to have been the 2008 Ripper.”

 

Miles sighed, fingers going still on his lap.

 

“Yes. And obviously the American Presses are going into overdrive with excitement. Bloody Yanks, don’t know when to let a bad thing die.”

 

Chandler found himself itching for the Tiger Balm in his desk drawer, to snap the elastic band around his wrist, to disconnect himself from what was happening. But he knew that he couldn’t.  Leadership meant standing your ground against everything, and it would be a disservice to Morgan’s memory as well as to his loyal team to let all of that go to waste.

 

“Is there any possibility of this being true Miles?”

 

Miles sighed again, conceived of exasperation as opposed to sleep deprivation and continued to worry his hands together in his lap.

 

“We don’t know yet, as I said, Mansell and Kent are looking into it although it’s believed that Lavender had links in the UK, so he _could_ be. We’re attempting to go through Lavender’s file to find photographic evidence from 2008, but no luck so far.”

 

Chandler folded the newspaper into fourths before handing it back to Miles shaking his head faintly.

 

“I’ll contact Anderson immediately, and I’d rather that this doesn’t go past this department that we’re getting involved in their investigation. We’ve already taken several knocks over the Ripper before, we don’t need that again.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Miles turned once he reached the door to Chandler’s office and inclined his head to Chandler, not quite a nod and not quite a smile.

 

“Chandler, remember, it wasn’t your fault.”

 

The door closed before Chandler could reply.

 

-

 

How it stood, was that if Oliver Lavender was the 2008 Ripper, having fled to America after his Autumn of Terror then he had killed again and that the team had failed. It had been their saving grace following the failure to capture him as Miles’ injury that they knew he wouldn’t kill again. And while Chandler’s name and by association the name of his team had been dragged through the mud. So if it was true, and Lavender as the Ripper had killed again and that it was provable without reasonable doubt, then Chandler doubted that even with Anderson’s help would the team be able to work again. Mansell and Riley would be saved from the worst of it, and Miles was planning on retiring within five years, but for the refinance of the original team, for young Kent and for Chandler himself they’d have very little prospects.

 

If they’d allowed the Ripper to strike again, unable to capture him and unable to give any leads having assumed him dead, then they might as well have handed in their badges after the ninth of November, 2008.

 

Commander Anderson, in full agreement of the predicament of Chandler and his team gave Chandler full licence of communication with the American Police, but refused to involve himself with the American Press.

 

“I’m sorry Joe, but you have to understand that this has brought enough scandal to our doorstep over the years. Hopefully you can reduce the impact as well as you can, but I’m afraid you and your team are the sacrificial lamb here if one is needed. I hope you understand Joe, but my hands are tied. I simply cannot help you any more than I am already.”

 

It felt like 2008 all over again, but this time without any of the naive hope.

 

-

 

“Kent, what do we know?”

 

“Oliver Lavender, 36, born in Ireland but moved to America as a child, had American citizenship, but spent a proportion of his life between 2005-2008 in Ireland for business. Involved in the selling of alcohol, including stereotypically, Guinness.”

 

Mansell guffawed and Riley rolled her eyes, shoving Mansell with her elbow, causing the black pen on the white board to smudge.

 

“Carry on lad.”

 

“Lavender then returned to Texas late 2008, and did not return to the UK. Found guilty of capital murder in 2010. The police department in Texas record four victims, all women. His modus operandi was by poisoning, all four of his victims were poisoned with cyanide in their meals or drinks proved by Lavender. Of his victims two were of African-American origin, one Latino and one Caucasian. His victims were of a lower status than Lavender himself, but one victim came from a white collar background, according to the American files.

 

Kent tightened his grip around the file he was reading from and didn’t look up to catch the eye of any of the team.

 

They weren’t yet fixed from what had happened.Between the death of Morgan and the recollection of their first case together the team were shaken and it was something that they all had to acknowledge. Miles could overcome anything through sheer will, but the rest of them weren’t as capable of holding themselves together. Perhaps this cause could solve something. They had their dignity as a detective unit, and that, if nothing else needed to be preserved.

 

“Sentenced to death by lethal injection, and spent three years in Huntsville Prison on death row. When asked for any last words Oliver Lavender said “Life is pointless anyway, why not do what you wish to do with it? We’re all dust and shit in the end.” After the injection had been administered, smiling Mister Lavender then smiled. “Remember 2008? It was a good year. Well, I was the copycat Jack-” and then fell silent, and was declared dead four minutes later.”

 

Mansell’s writing on the whiteboard was atrocious and Chandler flinched as Mansell capped off the marker pen.

 

“Thank you Kent.”

 

Chandler stepped forward to face the team, back to the board of known facts. Dotted among the facts of Oliver Lavender were photographs of the chalk evidence board from 2008, none of them had wanted to recreated the gruesome copycat killings again.

 

“Right, as you know, we have found ourselves involved in the Oliver Lavender case. The deceased Lavender gave a deathbed confession regarding the 2008 Ripper and we need to validate this and quickly.”

 

The team nodded as he spoke, Kent and Riley making notes – none willing to interrupt him.

 

Chandler tapped the grainy photo of Lavender against the board.

 

“Our suspect, we’re not yet in possession of photos of Lavender from 2008, so as of yet neither Miles, Kent nor myself have been able to identify him as David Cohen as yet.”

 

The words ‘David Cohen?’ were underlined in thick black marker next to Lavender’s photograph.

 

Chandler turned away from the board.

 

“Right, Riley, I know you weren’t here at the time, but I’d rather you handle the American Press. The press, both American and British are going to be all over this, and I trust that you will use full discretion. Ed will assist you when necessary. Try to keep his name out of the papers if possible. Mansell, I want you to work as rendezvous with the American police if they should wish to get in contact. I want as little contact between the original team, that is Kent, Miles, Ed and myself as possible with regards to this case. For obvious reasons. Kent, Miles, look into his previous offences, see if there’s any pattern whatsoever, ultimately we want to prove that he wasn’t our man, and for that we’re going to need evidence. Contact the Ireland police, they may be of some help. It’s going to be difficult, as the world is in uproar over this, and wants Lavender to be the Ripper. Okay, let’s go.”

 

-

 

“Sir? The photographs have come through.”

 

Riley scooped up the warm paper from the printer tray before Chandler was out from his office.

 

“Two from America, one from Ireland. America’s sent us the photos from Lavender’s arrest in 2010 before and after the trial, and Ireland has a photograph of a Mister A. Lavender, from 2008. They’ve not given any more information than that, but they suspect it could be our man using his middle name – Arnold.”

 

Chandler nodded, seeking the image on the desk, as to whether it tallied to the shaved and violent figure who still haunted his nightmares.

 

“Miles, you’re not needed to identify the photographs. Kent and I will manage and we can call in Frances Coles should we be unable to do so ourselves.”

 

Miles scowled, crossing his arms and staring out the younger and taller man.

 

“I can look at a blasted photo, he can’t get my liver from here. It was one panic attack.”

 

Neither Riley or Mansell were willing to intervene, knowing better than to go between Miles and Chandler when they went head to head.

 

“Miles, I insist, go and retrieve Kent from Ed’s basement and take a break.”

 

In the end it was Miles who acquiesced, and Mansell who broke the tension with a snigger.

 

“You make that sound like something dirty, sir.”

 

Chandler was growing incredibly fond of Riley’s no nonsense attitude to clipping Mansell over the head for his behaviour. Not that he would ever remark on it out loud. He would simply avoid reprimanding her for it.

 

Riley laid the photos out on Mansell’s desk, and Chandler lent forward.

 

The man photographed was tall and generic, with dark eyes that Chandler knew he was biased in seeing. He could be David Cohen, the 2008 Ripper and master of disguise, or he could not. He wasn’t sure, he couldn’t be sure.

 

They didn’t look dissimilar, but it wasn’t enough. It had been years since the Ripper and the man they’d considered twice dead, only to return again.

 

Chandler flinched as the door opened and Kent, followed by an earnest looking Ed entered.

 

“Sir?”

 

Kent looked nervous, like the young man he’d been when Chandler had first joined this team, and not the man that he’d turned into over while he’d been nominally in charge of the team.

 

“Kent, over here, I want you to look carefully.”

 

Chandler bracketed his hand over Kent’s shoulders as he looked down at the photographs. He wanted to remind the man of the present day, and not to get drawn back into the past. His fingers tightened against the material of Kent’s suit jacket as the younger man took in a staggered breath.

 

“Kent?”

 

“I don’t know sir. I’m sorry.”

 

-

 

“A death bed confession to being the Ripper. Ah, but this is nothing new. In 1892, one Doctor Thomas Neill Cream. Canadian and poisoner. Found guilty of murdering five victims, a sadist targeting men and women alike, in London, Ontario and Chicago. Finally caught by the London constabulary in 1892, he was sentenced to death with overwhelming evidence against him on both sides of the Atlantic. When he was taken to the scaffold he apparently spoke with the noose around his neck his final, fatal words, “I am Jack the-” and then he fell and the words were cut off forever. Now, only the hangman, James Billington heard the words, and it is impossible for Cream to have been in London at the time of the murders. Maybe it was Cream’s last joke before he died. But all we know is that his last words, which could have been used to plead for his immortal soul was to name himself as Jack.”

 

“So there are similarities between Lavender and Cream?”

 

“Oh, undoubtedly. Both are criminals who attributed the Jack name. To give themselves delusions of grandeur? To try and increase their fame? I don’t know. But it’s a basis.”

 

“Cream wasn’t the Ripper, but tried to use the Ripper name? So we ultimately have no more leads than we did before? Well, thank you Ed.”

 

“And Joe, one more thing?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Both of them were poisoners.”

 

-

 

Riley stood with her arms crossed in Chandler’s doorframe, propping the door open with her body. A calculated move so that while the privacy of their conversation was contained there wasn’t the barrier between her and the rest of the team.

 

“Sir, I know you don’t want to get involved with the American presses, but they’re incredibly insistent that they’ve solved the crime of the century and, well, they basically want to revel in their victory. They want a quote, from you.”

 

Chandler straightened his watch against the line of his desk.

 

“Riley, this that been overly dramatised for centuries and I don’t want this team to be involved any more than we have to.”

 

Riley rolled her eyes and re-crossed her arms, and Chandler felt like he was being reprimanded like how she’d reprimand her children.

 

“Sir. I have to tell them something, they’re _already_ mocking us and we’ve got to do something. I can regurgitate the facts from 2008 until I’m blue in the face, but I need something solid to use as proof, or it’s only going to get worse.”

 

Chandler dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his forehead as though the whole sorry mess could be avoided if only his headache would disperse.

 

“Riley we can’t do that.”

 

“We’ve got to do somethingJoe. We can’t go on like this. Or else they’re going to stop phoning us for quotes and start appearing at our doorstep demanding interviews. In fact I’m surprised that they’re not here already.”

 

Chandler sighed against his hands before removing them.

 

“Yes, I understand Riley, I’m sorry. Good work Riley, and thank you.”

 

-

 

“Right team, Ireland have records that they refuse to send us via e-mail or fax, they’ve told us that these records exist, but we can’t access them. If we can prove that Lavender was in Ireland during the Autumn of 2008 then we can solve what is essentially this cold case, and more importantly we can settle the presses.”

 

Mansell coughed under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like ‘save face more like’ but shrugged an apology as Chandler frowned at him.

 

“Anyway, in order to access these records we need to go over to them. Now, Miles, Kent and Riley, I’d like you three to go to Ireland, and view these records so that we can prove Lavender’s position. It would only be for a few days at the most. Obviously I understand if this isn’t possible, but I feel that the three of you would be the best team in this regard.”

 

Kent laughed.

 

“You don’t want to send Mansell Ireland sir, all that Guinness, he’d never come back.”

 

Mansell chuckled and tossed a ball of rolled up paper that bounced off Kent’s head and into the nearly empty cup of tea on the desk.

 

“And he scores. Result!”

 

“I hope you’re planning on clearing that up Mansell.”

 

Miles shook his head, hiding his smile, under his irate expression.

 

“Right, Skip, if it’s only a few days then it shouldn’t be a problem with my Judy.”

 

It was a lot to ask, even for only a few days field work, but Miles had never let him down before, even with the Krays.

 

“Riley, Kent?”

 

Kent ducked his head, going back to fishing out the damp paper from the mug in front of him.

 

“It’s not a problem for me sir.”

 

Riley was fiddling with her phone, urgently texting when Chandler turned to her.

 

“Riley?”                                                                  

 

She nodded.

 

“I can probably get Michael to watch the kids for a couple of days; lord knows he could do with taking responsibility.”

 

“Okay, I’ll contact Ireland to get it all arranged.”

 

-

 

The office was oddly silent with three of the team missing. Chandler had known that it would be quiet, that without Riley and Kent here Mansell would be more subdued and that Ed wouldn’t be there to antagonise Miles or to chat to Riley while he was taking lunch. But it was still peculiar not to have Kent popping his head around the door asking if there was anything that needed doing, or having Miles inviting himself into his office at the end of the day with a glass of scotch.

 

It had only been a couple of days, and yet with only the three of them working on the Lavender case it made the tone of the office feel different.

 

They kept each other together. He and the team, and the team on their own.

 

Mansell was almost too quiet in his work, and Chandler felt the need to go and check on Ed and to bring him up out of the basement and into the office to work. More than once he’d come across Ed with his mobile glued to his ear talking animatedly about the case of brides in the baths.

 

-

 

“Kent’s bloody pining, don’t know if he’s got a bird back home or something, but he’s a right nightmare. At least Riley’s over here or else we wouldn’t be getting anything done.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Oh well, doesn’t matter. It’ll be over soon and then he’ll stop moping and get back to work. You could have sent Mansell, drunk and disorderly, but not lovesick.”

 

“How’s the investigation going, have the Irish police supplied you with the necessary files?”

 

“Yes, thankfully, Riley and Kent are going through them and I think we’ve got evidence of Lavender in Ireland during November 2008, but we’re not quite sure yet. We’ve also been shown a couple of cold case files that have caught our attention.”

 

“Unsolved murders?”

 

“Yes, two women, poisoned with suspected cyanide- apparently ingested through spiked Guinness- which matches Lavender’s modus operandi, on the 30th of August and the 8th of September. Lavender it appears was never a suspect in those crimes, as first offence, but all the evidence weighs in his favour. It’s the same style as Lavender operated in America”

 

“And if Lavender was operating in Ireland during the Ripper’s return then he’s not-”

 

“Exactly. I mean, we can’t confirm it yet, but it seems to tally up sir.”

 

“Good work, so we’ve nearly broken the case?”

 

“Yes. I think we have. And we’re doing well over here, other than Kent’s ridiculous pining, Riley’s fine sir, missing her kids, it’s only been a few days, but yeah. Even Riley seems to be spending most of her time on the phone these days, constantly referring back to Buchan for his expert opinion on whatever historical nonsense he’s on about now. Like a bloody Catherine Cookson novel up here.”

 

“It could be worse Miles, it could be the _Dubliners_.”

 

“As you say Sir, as you say.”

 

-

 

Riley was flicking through the files that Ireland had supplied them with, clicking a pen against her teeth as she turned the page.

 

They hadn’t quite been given an office of their own to work in, but there was an old conference room, dusty and unused that they’d been stuck in for the foreseeable future.

 

And then Riley froze, eyes flicking over the same passage twice more before calling out to Miles who was standing in the corridor phoning Judy.

 

“Miles, Miles read this.”

 

As Miles read, Riley’s smile grew, as a grin overtook Miles’ face as well.

 

“Oh, you’re a star Megan.”

 

They were both bent over the CSO form when Kent re-entered the room with three coffees balanced in a cardboard cup-holder.

 

“One with milk and sugar, one black with sugar, and - have I missed something?”

 

Riley lent back in her chair, still fiddling with the pen, using it to gesture as she spoke.

 

“Lavender was doing a Community Service Order between the 8th and the 10th of November in 2008. There’s evidence of him signing in his hours to the Derry Police Department. There’s no way that he could have been in England for the evening of the 9th, especially as you lot had interacted with Cohen earlier in that week.”

 

Kent sipped his cappuccino as he processed Riley’s words.

 

“So he’s not the Copycat?”

 

“No, no he can’t have been.”

 

Miles took his coffee from the table where Kent had left them and took a mouthful, of the no-longer-hot coffee.

 

“You know what? I think we deserve something a bit stronger than coffee. Let me just ring his Nibs first, they can deal with presses.”

 

-

 

The noise of the office door being pushed open called Chandler out of his office. The light was flickering within the main office having just been turned on at the switch. Chandler smiled as Riley dropped her car keys onto her desk and hooked her fingers together pushing out against the air in front of her with a sigh.

 

“How was the drive from Holyhead?”

 

It was Miles who answered, having followed Riley into the office and dropped down into the nearest available desk chair.

 

“Long. We’ve been in Riley’s car for near on five hours. I can’t even spend that long with Judy without going mad. No offense love.”

 

Riley grinned, eyes following Kent as he rubbed his temple and perched on the edge of her desk.

 

“None taken Ray. You okay Em?”

 

Chandler looked from Miles to Kent, his smile which had appeared when the light flicked on faded slightly.

 

“Yeah. Got some Nurofen in my desk, I’ll be fine.”

 

Miles stretched his legs out in front of him, knocking at the pile of papers at the base of Mansell’s desk.

 

“Congratulations you three, as you know, it was your evidence that solved the case and has got America off our backs. Well done, you’ve all worked incredibly hard. Ed and Mansell are down in the basement, they both wanted to wait, so if you want to wait?”

 

Riley rifled through the plastic bag that she’d brought to her desk, having been placed unnoticed to the side of her chair.

 

“What’ve you got there Riley?”

 

“Just a few knickknacks for the kids, I can hardly go away and not get them anything can I sir? And a couple of books for Ed.”

 

Miles and Kent both looked at each other, saying something in their eyes that Chandler couldn’t quite translate, however before either of them could comment the door swung open again and Mansell all but pushed Ed into the room.

 

Ed was not asreceptive to Mansell’s joking about as the rest of the team and merely frowned at the other man, before nodding to Miles and Chandler. When he turned his head towards Riley he smiled, ducking his head faintly.

 

Chandler walked over to Miles as Ed approached Riley.

 

“What’s going on there Ray?”

 

“No idea, but I’m not nannying them through it. Whatever it is.”

 

Chandler chuckled under his breath, as he watched Riley hand the books over to Ed.

 

Mansell was booming a laugh over Kent’s hunched figure.

 

“Got a hangover there Em? Too much Guinness I think?”

 

Mansell roughed his knuckles across Kent’s curls, delighting in being able to affectionately horse about with his friends again.

 

Kent just pushed Mansell’s hand away.

 

“Sod off, got a headache from the journey back. That’s all.”

 

“Pub’s open, if you’re up for it?”

 

Kent rolled his eyes, and shook his head, and Chandler recalled that Miles had complained that Kent had been pining.  He could say something, but he didn’t know what.

 

Kent pushed himself off Riley’s desk waving his fingers towards Riley and Ed before walking towards his own desk and bending to open his desk drawer.

 

“I’m going home, I’m knackered.”

 

So instead Chandler turned to Miles.

 

“You’ve got the weekend; if you need to take any time off come Monday then just let me know Ray.”

 

Miles smiled, huffing a laugh out standing up.

 

“I’m old, but I’m not that bad yet. Right, I’m off home now, Kent, I’ll drop you halfway if you like, don’t want you on the motorbike with that head.”

 

Kent gulped the pills in his hand down dry.

 

“Cheers Skip.”

 

The office quietened down, with the faint mumbling of Riley and Ed talking.

 

“Cheers boss. See you on Monday.”

 

Riley exited the office next, followed swiftly by Buchan.

 

In the end Mansell stood, almost awkwardly at the edge of Riley’s desk, hands folded together, as they became the only ones in the office.

 

“Do you want a hand sir?”

 

Chandler looked up from the papers that he was straightening on Kent’s desk.

 

“Are you sure Mansell? You’re under no obligation to stay.”

 

“I don’t mind sir.”

 

Mansell started to sweep at his desk half-heartedly.

 

“Thank you Mansell.”


	2. Case 2

The car had been left in the hard shoulder just past junction 36 off the A1 for little over two hours before the police were called.

 

The car, a blue Vauxhall Corsa, had been left and stripped, keys out of the ignition and had been emptied. There was no sign of forced entry, but there was also no sign of the car’s owner. Nor any sign of a struggle.

 

It was only when the police heard mumbled shouts that they had the boot forced open to reveal the driver and her passenger.

 

Even as they were helped out of the boot and had blankets wrapped around their shivering forms they were smiling, elbowing the other and giggling into their shoulders.

 

In between pressing bandages to their rope-chaffed wrists and mild strength tea into their hands, the police attempted to find how the women had found themselves almost unharmed, locked in the boot of their own car.

 

They would only give one answer.

 

“Dick Turpin.”

 

-

 

“Joe. The Highway Man returns.”

 

Buchan swept his way into the office with a flourish, electing to turn a blind eye to the tutting and eye-rolling that accompanied his entrance.

 

Chandler looked up from where he was lent over Miles’ desk, looking over the write-up of the Lavender case.

 

Buchan coughed.

 

“Excuse me, I’d like to have a word with Joe please. Alone. In private.”

 

Miles frowned at Buchan but Chandler merely waved his hand at Miles who lent back in his chair, and turned to the excitable Buchan.

 

“Whatever needs to be said can be said here Ed. You’re a member of this team now.”

 

The newspaper articles and archive documents in Buchan’s hands were placed on Miles’ desk with a gruff, ‘do you mind?’ from Miles which was ignored by Buchan as he spread the papers to his optimal viewing.

 

“Richard Turpin, commonly known as Dick Turpin, 1705-1739. The famous romanticised highway man. Most famous for the fictional act of riding his beloved horse Black Bess from London to York overnight. Finally executed for stealing horses, although a murderer too, a probable rapist and thief.”

 

“Thanks for the history lesson. And now, if we’re quite done?”

 

“That’s what you think Ray, but he’s back. Dick Turpin is back on the roads around York.”

 

-

 

The webpage that Riley was trying to load kept freezing, each line of text being revealed if possible even slower than the one before, (I’d change this to a full stop) she sipped her tea idly as the end of the online article came into view.

 

She scanned it quickly before knocking the stress ball her son gave her out of the way of her mouse and looking to Miles.

 

“Listen to this Skip, apparently this new Turpin is dressing up in motorcycle leathers and approaching cars at random, normally drivers alone or with only one passenger and running them off the road.”

 

Mansell lent against the back of her desk chair, snagging the custard cream from against her mug.

 

“Bet you wouldn’t mind him running you off the road isn’t that right Riley.”

 

She leant back in her chair violently, knocking Mansell off balance.

 

“Oh, shut up Mansell you knob, let me keep reading the darned article. And don’t think I didn’t see that!”

 

Mansell wiped the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and attempted to look innocent. Kent snorted from across the room.

 

“Carry on, Riley.”

 

It had been a relatively quiet week apart from the almost fantastical tales of the newly revived Turpin from the north and Miles merely rolled his eyes at the actions of his team. Even Chandler wouldn’t have berated them for it, learning as he had the hard way that his team hid their sufferings well, and despite everything that they were good policemen.

 

“So he runs them off the road and then he robs them. Their wallets, their phones, their satnavs, even down to their CD collections in the car. But he leaves them with their car keys as long as they promise not to chase him down.”

 

She shifted in her chair, scrolling the screen down far enough to see an artist’s interpretation of what a man on a motorcycle could look like.

 

She thought that they could have mocked up better using Kent’s old Vespa and the boss’s black overcoat, but she read on, skim reading before paraphrasing to the office.

 

Even Mansell was listening, despite claiming that the case wasn’t even a case at all, just a washed up joke from up north.

 

“But he robs them _politely_. So that’s not a problem. Either the bike keeps being replaced or he’s doing something to the number plates, because the police up there can’t get a trace of it. Apparently the imprisonment of his first two victims in the boot of their own car was a publicity stunt in order for the police to know his name. The pair of them don’t seem to be too traumatised by this event, claiming that he asked them nicely and gave them both a kiss on the cheek. Blooming cheek, it’s like he’s turned into a local hero or something. But anyway, everyone’s seemingly rather endeared by this Dick Turpin.”

 

She continued to scroll down, and took a mouthful of her cooling tea before she continued.

 

“With the actions undertaken by Turpin on the rise… yadda yadda, it appears that people are proud of having been robbed by the highway man. Adam Ant’s _Stand And Deliver_ has been the most requested song on BBC Radio Yorkshire for the last three weeks and the amount of memorabilia is increasing. This accompanying York’s traditionally low vehicle crime is being seen as a novelty and not as real crime. Finally a spokesperson from York Castle Museum, where the original Turpin was incarcerated acknowledges that Dick Turpin is good for business, but urges caution.”

 

She sighed, closing the tab on the BBC news website to allow her screen to turn back into her generic blue desktop.

 

“So, are we going to do anything about that then?”

 

There was a moment of silence in the office, and Miles looked about ready to reply when Kent looked up again.

 

“Buy the t-shirt?”

 

She threw the stress ball at him with remarkable accuracy.

 

-

 

“Finlay, I simply do not understand how you don’t find this case interesting. It has intrigue, and mistaken identity, a key link to the past and it’s being conducted right under our very noses.”

 

Mansell put the coffee he was carrying down onto one of Buchan’s open files just to watch the older man wince as it spilled over the sides, and Ed all but dropped the file he was reading from to retrieve the cardboard cup.

 

“Riley asked me to bring you down something. And of course I don’t care, it’s hardly worth our time now is it? All the way up in Yorkshire. It’s a good enough story but it’s all for show, their police will deal with it soon enough. It’s just publicity.”

 

Buchan put his half empty, machine bought coffee down on a coaster he’d retrieved from a drawer and turned back to Mansell.

 

“But it’s not that at all, haven’t you been paying any attention to the media of late? The copycat has his own copycats, and they’re certainly not maintaining the illusion of the dapper highwayman.  There has been advice given not to drive alone, for young women to tie up their hair before driving at night. Can you honestly have been unaware of this?”

 

Mansell crossed his arms defensively, ducking his head as though to avoid the low ceilings of Buchan’s archive.

 

“I live in central London, I’m lucky to use a car for anything other than driving out to see my mum every other month.”

 

“There is a highway man craze hitting the roads of England, Finlay and it goes far beyond the quaint streets of York. It is a problem of impersonation, and should Turpin be taken in then the crime wave will cease. We’ve seen it before with copycat criminals, and we can nip this in the bud. And we can do it ourselves, should any of you have the inclination to do so!”

 

“Why us then? Surely Yorkshire’s capable enough to handle their own criminals?”

 

Buchan sighed, gathering discarded papers in one hand and gesticulating with the other.

 

“Of course it isn’t our, the team’s official area of responsibility. But we have handled copycat cases in the past, we have the resources to investigate this using the basis of history. The Turpin case is all but ours. And we must call him Turpin, that is the name that he has taken for himself and that matters. And of all the teams that could investigate this it is us who will respect that. If we can catch Turpin then the craze _will_ die down, and don’t forget, people are being hurt. We have a duty.”

 

He paused, turning back to Finlay as though he’d quite forgotten who he was addressing.

 

“Will you speak to Joe?”

 

“I’ll mention it to the boss, but I’m not making any promises. And when you come up pleading your case or whatever, tell Riley that I brought you your darned coffee.”

 

Buchan raised the stained cardboard in a salute.

 

“Of course Finlay.”

 

-

 

The e-mail granting unofficial liaison to the North Yorkshire police came through on Tuesday morning and Chandler had the team gathered around the partially cleared whiteboard.

 

“Right, Anderson has somehow managed to land us a liaison in York. The conditions applied to this unofficial invitation are simple, only two members of this team are allowed to liaise with North Yorkshire police and there are to be no uniformed police. We will only be there as representatives of the Met and will not be on official active duty at the time. Any findings that we obtain must be given directly to North Yorkshire Police, which is the best deal that we’re going to get and I can’t see fault with it. This has all been agreed and we can operate in York from the 19th, this Tuesday.”

 

He looked at Miles as he spoke, and Miles nodded.

 

Chandler knew that it was a risk to draw his attentions away from his jurisdiction, even with Anderson’s approval and influence, and although the plans were already in place he was pleased to note Miles’ approval.

 

“Miles, Riley, I don’t expect either of you to leave your families. Especially not so soon after you both travelled to Ireland. We should only be a week at most.”

 

Riley clucked her tongue at Chandler in thanks.

 

Mansell huffed and caught Chandler’s eyes as he turned.

 

“Mansell?”

 

“Going up to York for a bit of fake policing, sounds awful. Sorry, I get like, that this is important and all, but, come on.”

 

Chandler opened his mouth as though to reply, before shrugging and looking towards his youngest Detective.

 

“Kent, with me.”

 

-

 

The journey to York was not at long as Chandler had expected it to be, watching the countryside sidle past almost idly, and it was raining when they finally exited the station just beyond the city walls.

 

The newsstand next to the station had the hyperbolic “Black Bess Rides Again” emblazoned on it, and Kent bought the local paper flicking to the article before folding it into his rucksack.

 

Chandler had travelled in a suit, protected from the worst of the weather in his overcoat, but as the skies became greyer and the rain became heavier Kent’s jeans became sodden and his hair uncurled to lie flat and limp across his scalp.

 

The hotel was standard but durable; an act of juggling the finances by Anderson meant they could book their rooms through expenses, despite saying that he could do them no favours. Therefore, while Chandler had pulled a face at the initial state of his room, and Kent had eyed up the menu in the bar disparagingly, neither man felt as though they could complain.

 

They weren’t in adjoining rooms, but opposite rooms instead. On the first night after they’d said their awkward goodnights, they could hear the other across the corridor. The next morning over the only adequate breakfast and with hair still damp from the substandard showers, they didn’t talk about what they had heard across the paper thin walls and hallway.

 

As an unofficial investigation they spent most of their time wandering the streets of York, occasionally liaising with the constables on the beat having flashed their ID, but mostly they walked, they spoke to anyone who would stop and they read the local paper while watching the tourists pass by.

 

Chandler felt like an oddity in York. It was a city of the elderly and of students, and it was Kent who had the better luck when talking to the strangers they encountered.

 

It was the first time that Chandler had spent time with his youngest constable since the three day investigation accumulating in Morgan’s death. The team was building itself back together, but there were tensions that remained and everyone knew it.

 

Miles had attempted to talk to Chandler about his relationship with the team, and especially Kent after the incident, but Chandler had shrugged him off, saying how it didn’t matter anymore after all.

 

So spending the days together in York, alone apart from the presence of strangers was the first time that they’d been in a position to talk.

 

However the flux of tourists and locals who were enthralled by the illusive Dick Turpin, left little time for communication other than attempts to interview on the sly.

 

-

 

Kent answered his phone on the fourth ring, looking up from the magazine article that he was reading before glancing to Chandler who was still sipping his tea- eyes glued to the papers in front of him- and pressing the phone to his ear.

 

“Hello, Emerson Kent-”

 

He held the mouthpiece away from his face as the caller answered the unasked question.

 

“It’s Buchan sir, should I put it on speaker?”

 

The café was quiet, and between Chandler’s half-empty tea and Kent’s cooling cappuccino they weren’t going to be asked to leave any time soon. Chandler nodded.

 

Ed’s voice crackled into existence in the café.

 

“Although Turpin was thought to be a gentlemanly highway man, cool, calm and collected,we all know this to be a lie. He was a murderer and a con, known for his violence and his bad attitude. And it’s like people are forgetting the past, he wasn’t this gentlemanly highway man, he was a killer.””

 

Chandler sighed, leaning into the mobile phone, speaking quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb the patron who had just walked into the small café and who was placing his order.

 

“We know Ed, you’ve told us this all before.”

 

Kent had his notebook out by the side of his magazine, magazine still folded to the article on ‘Dashing Dick’.

 

Ed coughed through the static.

 

“But this new Dick could be hiding a secret of his own, so while people are thinking kindly of the new Turpin, he could be hiding a dark secret.”

 

The word, ‘secret’ was underlined in Kent’s neat handwriting, and he circled it once and then laid the pen down straight to the edge of the battered notebook.

 

Kent looked towards Chandler before leaning towards his phone himself.

 

“Look Ed, nothing is coming up on Turpin. He’s clean, as clean as a highway man can be anyway. We can’t find anything on him other than what the police working the case already know.”

 

There was the rifling of papers through the static, before Ed replied.

 

“Look, you’ve got to keep going. There’s got to be a clue that is being missed, because there are reports of copycat Turpins as far down south as the M6. If you can catch the original then the others will fall into place.”

 

-

 

Chandler tried his best not to lurk as Kent found himself someone to speak to about the Dick Turpin craze. He was currently sitting against a basic fountain watching as Kent spoke to a couple of what Chandler supposed were university students outside the Disney Store.

 

He couldn’t hear what was being said over the tourist chatter, so instead Chandler focused on Kent’s body language, how he lent away from the two girls he was talking to and how he hunched his shoulders when someone brushed past them.

 

He’d not liked people standing behind him since the Krays, Chandler noted.

 

Eventually Kent came back to his side, pulling out his notebook and jotting down the details that he considered relevant.

 

There was silence between the two of them as Kent wrote, there were no new details available that Chandler could read over Kent’s shoulder; _Dick Turpin was dashing, is dashing, bringing the history in York to life and after all it wasn’t like he was hurting anyone now was he?_

 

“I’m sorry sir.”

 

Chandler looked up from reading Kent’s notes to look his youngest constable in the eye.

 

He remembered the last time that Kent had apologised to him, in Buchan’s house, hiding out from the Krays. There had been reason to apologise then.

 

“Kent?”

 

Chandler smiled, hoping that it was encouraging.

 

“For what happened with Morgan. I know we’ve- you’re- we’re trying to move on from that. But I hadn’t apologised, and I feel. She accused me of being the bad cop, just before her death, and-”

 

Chandler reached out, hesitating for only a second before patting his hand against Kent’s forearm.

 

“I, I don’t blame you. It wasn’t you’re fault, tensions were running high through that investigation, and things were said that wouldn’t have been said under normal circum-”

 

“No sir. What if she was right? What if the Krays were right? I’ve not felt, I don’t know sir. But it could be me, after everything that happened with the Krays. I could be the bad cop, the flaw, and I don’t-”

 

It had been easier before, back when he’d had context to Kent’s apology. His hand was still resting on Kent’s arm.

 

“Kent, they weren’t Krays, they were Brooks, and you are a good man Kent, and you’re a good policeman. I trust you. You’re an integral part of the team. And I don’t blame you for what happened. No one does. And John wouldn’t blame you either”

 

Chandler felt it prudent not to comment on the hitch in Kent’s gasp, and instead marginally tightened his grasp on his arm before releasing it and turning to look across the crowding street.

 

-

 

According to Miles, Whitechapel was quiet without them.

 

“Not that it’s got anything to do with you sir, it’s too hot for anyone to kick up too much of a fuss. There’s been a couple of break-ins and one domestic gone wrong, but nothing that we’ve not handled before. The Scott case, you know where we couldn’t get the evidence, well; he’s banged to rights now. Tell Kent to keep his nose clean, and enjoy your little sojourn sir.”

 

But York wasn’t quiet, with the sun having come out and shining on the historic cobbles there was a wave of tourists during the day and students during the evening. For a small city it was almost permanently inhabited, filled cramped to bursting, and someone, somewhere had to know who Dick Turpin was.

 

It was the curse of the masked villain, any of the people that they addressed, within reason, could be Turpin. The North Yorkshire police weren’t finding any leads either, although they were less willing to discuss their findings with the pair of them than Chandler would have liked. But he knew that Anderson had done all he could, and there were no more concessions to be granted.

 

The North Yorkshire police had unofficially shared that there had been seven more suspected cases that they could assign to Turpin, but that accompanied a rise of travellers and their vehicles being reported missing. There was a suspected link but this couldn’t be proven and it was all they could do to attempt to find the suspect among the masses.

 

The lopsided street of the Shambles, Chandler had to concede, was charming to look at and quaint to walk down; almost as different to the harsh streets of Whitechapel as he could imagine within a cityscape.  Chapels and shrines embedded in between coffee shops and tourist tat. It was peculiar, to look up at buildings and instead of seeing them arching above the sky, they were crowning over as though to touch over his head.

 

They spent their time wandering, the two of them making an unlikely pair. Even more so as the evenings drew on and the average age of the population decreased past Chandler and skimming Kent’s own age bracket.

 

A day of casual conversation with residents and visitors alike had alighted nothing new, other than a repeated respect for Turpin and one more suspected case, which Chandler rang into their liaison without hope of further notice.

 

It was early in the evening when they found a bar that they’d not entered before. While the social population of York was somewhat transient Chandler and Kent were working their way across the city, as though travelling somewhere new would reveal Dick Turpin to them.

 

The bar, Evil Eye, was quiet and Kent bought their drinks, an orange juice for Chandler and a coke for himself. Chandler had reiterated that although they were not officially working that they were still to maintain the standards necessary for an investigation, and therefore until they had been released from their relationship with North Yorkshire police that they would be treating it like their own case. And that meant no alcohol.

 

Kent was almost tempted to slip a single of vodka into his glass for the evening, but he brought back the drinks virgin.

 

Chandler took his juice with thanks, and then turned back to attempting to talk to the patrons of the lounge.

 

Later that evening Kent approached Chandler and stood at his side, still clutching the empty first drink.

 

“Sir, I recognise him.”

 

Kent was gesturing with an inflection of his head towards the bar. It wasn’t quite crowded, but of the six or so figures ordering drinks Chandler couldn’t tell who Kent could be referring to.

 

“In the, erm, velvet jacket. Back in Whitechapel, before you joined us there was, he’s Fred Jameson I think. Got into trouble with the law a few times, moved up North. Used to work on market stalls, and got in trouble for selling scrap metal. It seems odd to see him here.”

 

Chandler frowned down as his half empty glass and then looked up.

 

“Go and talk to him, if he recognises you then he might reveal more information.”

 

Kent didn’t return, and as Chandler thought to leave the lounge, he received a text from Kent telling him to leave without him.

 

Kent blushed the next day when Chandler asked him how conversation with Jameson had gone.

 

-

 

“We’ve been contacted by North Yorkshire police, they want to call us off the case. Apparently a number of the missing vehicles have been found, crushed, with human remains inside, and as a result this is now a murder investigation.”

 

“Sir, Freddie James last night. He, well, I’ve his number if we need to contact him again. He knew me, but didn’t recognise me as police. He said that he was working at a scrap yard, and that he finally bought that motorbike that he was hoping to achieve in Whitechapel. There can’t be any harm in looking into it sir.”

 

“Freddie James you say? He does match the suspected profile of Turpin. Our liaison terminates this afternoon, but any evidence that we can deliver before we leave would be well received. Could you contact James to arrange a meeting for noon? I can have uniformed police on hand. Maintaining the pretence of this being an encounter would be helpful, Kent.”

 

-

 

The new day is just as sunny and bright as it had been over the course of the three days they’d spent in York, and Kent was leaning against the wall of the bridge watching the water, waiting for Freddie James to meet for their rendezvous.

 

Chandler, already knowing that his presence stands out, especially shadowing Kent, hung back, waiting for the moment, for the planned signal.

 

Chandler has a vague image of Freddie James in his head, from the velvet-clad man in the bar last night and the shady photograph that Kent had managed to take after Chandler had left.

 

The man who sidled up to Kent and lent against the wall staring over the water himself matched the description.

 

Chandler couldn’t overhear the conversation that was taking place, and he kept one hand on his phone, the pre-written message only waiting for Chandler to press send before back up would arrive. He had had to call it a hunch, and a lead as opposed to notnaming Freddie James as a suspect, but with less than a day left on the murder case any lead was progress.

 

James had turned, smiling coolly into Kent’s personal space.

 

Kent stiffened as James’ hand pressed low on his back, not for the first time Chandler’s mind was brought to the Krays.

 

He stepped forward.

 

“Dick Turpin I presume?”

 

It didn’t take James more than ten seconds to start running.

 

York is a beautiful city, but chasing around the city walls in a woollen suit is not the circumstance to view it in. Kent had started to run first, but Chandler only allowed himself the time to send the message before taking chase.

 

It had obviously been an act of panic sending Freddie towards the city walls, with their limited exits rather than down one of the side-streets, but with unexpected steps and local knowledge they weren’t sure to catch him.

 

The pathway on the city walls is thick enough for two people to walk side by side, but attempting to run past tourists and locals burdened with shopping is an different matter and more than once Chandler has to shout out apologies and explanations over his shoulder.

 

Chandler overtakes Kent on the straight past the train station, and Freddie James only looked back towards them once.

 

“Police!”

 

The walls finally ran out, and Chandler had almost lost James in the tourists crossing the road to crowd at the base of the small castle- Clifford’s Tower, his mind supplied- but it’s Kent from behind him who sees James first.

 

“He’s heading up the stairs sir.”

 

There are police gathered and it can only be the continuation of sheer panic which herds James up the narrow staircase. Cleared of visitors, who are instead standing looking panicked behind the lines of police, it is completely free for Chandler to dash the intersection and follow him up the steps.

 

He knows that he oughtn’t follow James, but he’s running on the adrenaline and he knows without looking that Kent is following him.

 

James is standing, framed in the doorway to the castle, a tiny stone circlet of a room and his only way out is either the steps holding both Chandler and Kent or the steep grassy bank.

 

“If you want the cliché exposition speech then you can forget it. Yes, I’m Turpin and you know it. Why should I deny that?”

 

James is unarmed, but he’s above them beyond the steep steps, and Chandler doesn’t feel confident enough to try and take him down.

 

“But more importantly I thought that the police weren’t allowed to honey trap any more, and what else would you call that?”

 

He’s gesturing at Kent standing further down on the steps, and Kent looks sheepish, but holds James’ eye.

 

“We’re from the Metropolitan, we’re not on duty or have jurisdiction in York.”

 

Freddie laughed.

 

“Least I’ll go down in history, everyone will know me as Dick Turpin, no matter what happens now. And it doesn’t matter who I was before Turpin. It’s only Turpin who will be remembered. And you can’t take that away from me. Who’d want to die in Yorkshire?”

 

“Don’t be a fool Freddie, you’re not going to die.”

 

The velvet jacket is green and his suit hardly looks wrinkled for the run across the city walls.

 

Chandler flinched backwards as Freddie falls, but Kent reached out to try and catch him, gripping the fabric but slipping, and the steps down Clifford’s Tower are very steep.

 

He lands with a thump and Chandler flinches.

 

-

 

After the North Yorkshire police publicised the hospitalisation and capture of highwayman and murderer, Freddie James, alias Dick Turpin, who had robbed those who went willingly and crushed the bodies of those who refused still in their cars, the endearment to the dapper highwayman ceases.

 

The fall down Clifford’s Tower broke Freddie James’ spine and he was taken into hospital under police guard.

 

Chandler and Kent’s involvement was kept as hush-hush as the dramatic finale could have dealt with, and the newspaper reported that two external detectives assisted the investigation, no more, no less. And when Chandler thought to mention it he heard the noise of Freddie falling.

 

Freddie had been the catalyst though, and Ed, correct as he often surprised himself by being, had estimated the fall of the highway man craze alongside Freddie James’ downfall.

 

The train back to central London was peaceful, with Chandler paying the extortionate prices for a tea and a cappuccino, the second which he passed along to Kent and waved off payment.

 

“Thank you sir.”

 

“Don’t worry about it Kent.”

 


	3. Case 3

The Red Barn Bed & Breakfast was popular for its scenic views, its relatively cheap prices, its own hop garden attached and its locality to a number of local breweries and pubs.

 

When Miles had taken a week’s holiday and Judy had sat him down with choices of three different hotels and B&Bs, having promised that the kids were going to her sister’s for the week, he’d chosen the Red Barn B&B due to its dark red paint on the framework.

 

And it had been a wonderful holiday for the first two days of their time-off work, and then a body was found in one of the bathtubs.

 

-

 

“A young one, only a baby. The body was found on the floor above me and Judy, obviously all the guests have to stay as witnesses, we’re all under suspicion.”

 

“I’ll see whether it’s possible to get us assigned to the case, Anderson should be willing to negotiate with the Kent Police.”

 

“Chandler, that’s completely unnecessary.”

 

“Don’t be foolish Miles, we haven’t any cases on the go and I’m sure Kent wouldn’t object to providing any assistance.”

 

“That’s going to get confusing very quickly isn’t it sir?”

 

“What is?”

 

“Never mind. I obviously can’t speak to you too much privately about what’s going on here sir.”

 

“Obviously. I’ll speak to Anderson immediately.”

 

-

 

The body in room 7 had been identified as the body of Victor Marshall, the two year-old son of the owner. Mary Marshall’s screams could be heard throughout the B&B and Miles wrapped his arms around Judy’s shoulder as she cried.

 

The police gave the residents of the B&B licence to, with accompaniment, call significant others and children, and Judy and Miles had spoken the softest words that they could to their children as they were stood over by a frowning uniformed officer.

 

At first suspicion fell on the guests of room 7, but the records showed that the room had been emptied two days ago. As the room doors were left unlocked without booked in residents that line of enquiry fell through, and attention was directed back to the  dozen B&B guests.

 

The corridors near room 7 were cordoned off, and all the rooms were thoroughly searched. A bloodied towel was found in the sanitary bin of the ladies off the breakfast bar and only a few of the guests were allowed to leave the hotel, but told to remain in police contact.

 

With the option given to remain in the B&B, Miles and Judy waited for Chandler’s arrival and the ultimate arrival at the truth.

 

Then the two hotel staff members were held in suspicion. Gertrude Cropper and Hector Fairchild were both in their early twenties, bedecked in the crimson and silver gelded uniform of the Red Barn.

 

Gertrude, although her name tag read as ‘Gertie’, had lanky mouse brown hair tied into a low ponytail, while Hector’s blonde curls were tucked behind his glasses. Few of the guests had seen Gertie laugh, but she most often cracked her smiles while Hector was near, flicking her with the towels that they were supposed to be folding or winking at her over the breakfast bar.

 

Judy had been charmed by Hector’s polite tones when they’d arrived at the B&B and Miles had huffed and shoved a fiver into the boy’s hand as he’d pulled their suitcase from the lobby for them.

 

Gertie’s closed off persona first directed suspicion towards her, and she cried over the death of Victor when being watched while her eyes were dry as she conducted her work. However she was able to come up with an alibi for the night prior to the discovery of Victor’s body. Hector had backed her up sweetly, an armed wrapped around her shoulder as she avoided eye contact.

 

Mary had cupped Hector’s cheek after his given alibi for Gertrude, although she refused to interact with Gertie herself.

 

-

 

Despite Mary Marshall’s tears she’d maintained that the Red Barn needed to remain open to draw in the necessary income, and she’d encouraged the presence of police in the hotel.

 

She lived in a cottage just beyond the hop garden, with Gertie and Hector providing the on-site assistance past reception opening hours.

 

Through Mary’s smeared mascara she’d insisted that she’d feel more comfortable with even more police with her.

 

The Kent constabulary had accepted the pressure from above to allow the Whitechapel team to interact on their case, although a few rolled eyes and muffled words had been heard when Ed, clearance badge swinging against his knitted sweater, had exited the police car with a beam on his face.

 

Riley had slapped him on the arm slightly, but his grin didn’t entire dissipate.

 

They were roomed as separately as they could be from the rest of the guests, and Miles and Judy, despite interacting with the team, vetted their actions through the Kent police, and other than the quick hug and muffled sob that Judy had thrown around Riley’s shoulder they’d been almost silent.

 

-

 

“Hey love, you got anything a bit stronger back there?”

 

Mansell was sitting at the breakfast bar, watching Gertie tidy up the kitchen, his feet kicked up on the chair opposite.

 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind letting me have a sip, nice girl like you.”

 

Gertie didn’t look up from the washing up that she was doing, the repetitive motion of twisting the tea-towel into the glasses the only movement in the kitchen.

 

Riley entered the breakfast room just as Mansell pushed forwards off his chair and lent over the bar.

 

“So, you enjoy working in this place then? I’m sure you can make it fun.”

 

The staff entrance swung open, but Gertrude hadn’t moved and Hector pressed forward into Mansell’s personal space.

 

“She’s not interested, I don’t care if you’re in the police, I think you should leave her alone.”

 

Riley put her hand on Mansell’s shoulder, a gentle tug that he brushed off but made to step backwards.

 

Riley nodded towards Hector, who was still grinding his teeth, starring up at Mansell, not intimidated by the little space between their faces or the height difference between the two of them.

 

The hop garden had benches and seats outside and the pair of them sat outside, watching the blue tape cross the outside window of room 7’s bathroom.

 

“How about you let the suspects be while we’re investigating, especially when their boyfriend is on the scene. And also a possible suspect.”

 

Mansell frowned shaking his head incredulously.

 

“I thought that he was her little brother or something? You know, being a bit over protective. I mean, how could anyone resist this?”

 

Riley rolled her eyes and linked her fingers together resting them on the uncomfortable table they were sitting at.

 

-

 

The evening was mild, mild enough for the seven of them to be sitting in the garden seats of one of the village pubs. They’d already eaten, their empty plates still in front of them and Kent had been tasked with getting the next round in.

 

“Oh come on Finlay, there are seven of you.”

 

“Not my problem. Get a tray.”

 

Miles pushed his plate out of the way as he lent forward, knotting his fingers together and leaning on the stained wooden table.

 

“So sir, Kent?”

 

“Miles, I’m sure that I don’t understand what you mean.”

 

Chandler’s tea was starting to cool, but he sipped it regardless. While he considered himself still to be on duty, the others were not so dutiful with their drinks, and Kent was getting in the third drinks for the majority of the table.

 

“Of course you don’t sir. But it needs dealing with sooner rather than later, and he doesn’t deserve cruelty.”

 

Chandler frowned, brows knitting together.

 

“No, of course not. I quite agree.”

 

Miles sighed, lowering his hands from the table and letting one rest on Judy’s thigh, she turned to smile at him before returning to her conversation with Riley. While it wasn’t what he’d have wanted for their holiday he was pleased that they could spend some time together.

 

“Right, how’s working with Kent police, obviously, me ‘not being on the case’ means that I’m a little out the loop.”

 

Chandler shrugged.

 

“They’re telling us practically nothing, but of course they’ve got their own lines of enquiry. There’s little more to say, I’m afraid.”

 

They both looked up from the conversation when they heard a faint muttering, which transpired to be Kent talking to himself attempting to hold the tray covered in drinks without spilling any.

 

They spilt when he dropped the tray down onto the table. Mansell made a grab for his pint and ended up wiping his sticky hand on his jeans.

 

“Kent you muppet.”

 

Kent just rolled his eyes and pushed Ed and Riley’s pints towards each other as Judy took a sip from her white wine.

 

After Ed’s first gulp he ended up with a foam moustache and Riley giggled, rubbing at her own lip until he got the message.

 

“What is going on with you two anyway?”

 

Ed bent his head down, to avoid the question, but Riley just laughed again.

 

“That’s for us to know, and you not to find out.”

 

Mansell sighed, leaning back into the uncomfortable benches.

 

“Am I the only bloody person here not getting laid?”

 

Miles laughed and Riley rolled her eyes, but Kent made a gesture that implied that he’d pour his pint over Mansell’s head if it hadn’t cost him quite so much.

 

-

 

“Good afternoon miss.”

 

The woman at the shop counter looked up as Riley spoke, over the tinkling bell over the door. She nodded, and Riley pushed the door closed.

 

The shop was quiet, just groceries and tacky postcards, and Riley passed her gaze over it passively, before reaching into her pocket and turning to the woman, who suddenly looked spooked.

 

“I’m involved in the case at the Red Barn, and I was wondering if you could tell me anything about-”

 

“It weren’t _me_ , I’ve been up in London, shop’s been locked up. Only got back on Tuesday.”

 

Riley smiled, putting her ID back in her pocket and trying to look at the local as reassuringly as possible.

 

“Oh, you’re not under suspicion, I’m not investigating the case directly. I was only wondering what you knew about Gertie Cropper?”

 

The woman behind the counter visibly relaxed, tucking her greying hair behind the arm of her glasses with a wistful look.

 

“Miss?”

 

“Mrs Alice Stewart.”

 

“Mrs Steward.”

 

Riley took out her notebook and lent on the counter, gesturing for the woman to talk.

 

“Oh, Gertrude, she was a local girl. Bit of an odd one, but a local girl through and through. Oh, her and her brother, they were a right pair when they were little.”

 

Riley looked up from notes, smiling faintly.

 

“Naughty kids?”

 

Alice Steward gave half a shrug and shook her head, brows knitted together.

 

“Not exactly. They were just a little odd. Very quiet, always together. But Gertrude, she was odd. Very quiet, and didn’t seem to get on with the other local kids. Just her and her brother playing make-believe or pretending to run away. No one expected her to come back and work here. But she’d do anything for her little brother, even then.”

 

Riley smiled. Her kids weren’t exactly angels, but they got on. And she could well imagine the fun that they could have in this setting. Whether she’d want to let them roam free was another matter, but they were good kids, Malcolm and Jennifer, friends as well as siblings, and so many siblings didn’t get on.

 

“Her brother?”

 

“Oh, Hector. The different surnames must throw you off the scent. Their father, Peter remarried after their mother’s death, and Hector took the Fairchild name.”

 

Riley blanched, biting her lip as she wrote. Nodding slowly as she read over her own words.

 

“So, Hector and Gertrude are brother and sister?”

 

Alice Steward seemed unfazed by her hesitation or desire for clarification.

 

“Yes, good local family, been in the village for generations. Sad about what happened to them.”

 

Riley felt her phone buzz in her pocket, and apologetically waved her hand as she fished it out. Tutting at the screen, she replaced it and looked back up at Alice Stewart.

 

She smiled, and Alice smiled back at her, cocking her head quizzically.

 

“Thank you for your help Alice, I’ve got to go, but I’m severely tempted by your fudge, my kids would love it.”

 

-

 

The pub, The White Horse, had become a meeting ground and Mansell passed Riley her coke as they stood in the smokers’ section. It was quiet, and while they weren’t officially investigating the case it was still prudent to be careful.

 

They said ‘you were right’ in unison.

 

Riley spluttered into her coke and raised her eyebrow once she’d wiped her face with the complimentary, if nominally pointless, napkin provided.

 

“They kissed.”

 

“Who?”

 

Mansell laughed, playing with his loosened tie.

 

“Miles and his Nibs, blimey, who do you think? Gertrude and Hector, of course.”

 

“What, like a peck on the cheek?”

 

“No, like, _proper_ kissing. Hector slapped me for being a peeping Tom, the cheek of it.”

 

Instinctively Riley frowned at him, batting his arm and Mansell winced.

 

“Where you actually spying on them? You’re a proper pervert Finlay.”

 

He held his hands up in surrender.

 

“I was working, it was for the case, but, yeah. So they’re dating. Well don-”

 

“But they’re siblings.”

 

It was Mansell’s turn to choke on his drink, and he started coughing until Riley thumped him on the back.

 

“What?”

 

Riley put her drink down on the ledge in front of them and pulled out her notebook.

 

“Yeah. The Croppers are a local family, Gertrude and Hector were brought up here, they’re local kids. When their father remarried Hector’s name changed from Cropper to Fairchild.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

Mansell shook his nearly empty glass.

 

“I wish that this was something stronger,” Riley huffed a laugh in assent and finished her own drink. Mansell put his glass down next to the ashtray and carried on.

 

“So, we were both right. Well, that changes things. Does anyone else know?”

 

“According to the village they’re just siblings, from what I’ve heard, and no one’s said anything.”

 

Riley sighed, rubbing her temples.

 

“Could they be protecting them? It’s what, two years inside for that?”

 

Mansell shrugged.

 

“Something like that. But what are we going to do about it?”

 

“Well, I can hardly go asking around after them any more about it, I’m not a good enough actor to pretend I don’t know anything. And you’re no better.”

 

“Send Kent?”

 

Mansell was already reaching for his phone.

 

“And don’t tell him anything!”

 

-

 

The basket was pushed into Kent’s hands as he was talking, and his notebook fell into the bottom of it.

 

“I’m sorry Mr Cradduck, I’m simply- Sir, you’ve lived here all your life, I was asking about Gertie and Hector, as children?”

 

Mr Cradduck tightened his grip on his walking stick, and cast an appraising eye over Kent’s hold on the basket.

 

“You going to pick some of those apples for me or not son? You can listen and work. Pick them off the trees and put them in the basket, it’s not hard. I’d do it myself, but my joints you see, and you might as well help an old man out.”

 

Mr Cradduck’s orchard wasn’t massive, about thirty trees in total, and Kent reached up to the first apple automatically as Mr Cradduck looked on, he seemed unimpressed, but he seemed to have the sort of face that always looked unimpressed.

 

“Mr Cradduck?”

 

The apples looked healthy, as much as Kent knew about apples, ripe and fresh, some red and some green. Just like apples.

 

“Right, you want to know about Peter’s kids. Little Hector and Gertie. They were good kids while they were little. It’s a shame. Especially to hear about the poor little babby. Oh, their poor step-mother.”

 

Kent frowned and tried to balance the basket against his hip so that he could reach in to retrieve his notebook.

 

“Did I tell you to stop picking boy?”

 

Kent put the basket back down at his feet and reached up to the apples again.

 

“Mary, I don’t think she coped with Peter’s death. Not that I’m one to gossip, but well, that rebound marriage to Henry Marshall, nasty business. I’ll never know why she kept the name, but that’s her business I suppose. And now for that terrible business with little Victor. I can’t say I knew the kids up at Red Barn that well, but those poor kids have lost a sibling and a father within three years, it just isn’t right. I pray for that family.”

 

Kent hesitated, holding one of the freshly plucked apples.

 

“Gertrude and Hector are, were Victor’s half-siblings?”

 

Mr Cradduck sighed, leaning further into his walking stick, before looking down at his watch.

 

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said boy? That’s exactly it. Once you’ve filled that basket you can leave it on the back step.”

 

“I am actually a detective, sir, not an errand-”

 

But Mr Cradduck had already turned back towards his cottage, and Kent looked back to the apple in his hand.

 

Kent was stretched up on tiptoe, one hand pressed against the trunk of the tree and the other reaching towards the final apple when he heard a voice behind him.

 

“Have you swapped careers now Kent?”

 

Kent jumped, only fractionally, and his grip on the tree tightened.

 

“Oh, no sir, I was, one of the witnesses-”

 

Chandler smiled, shrugging.

 

“Don’t worry Kent. I was only joking, should I help?”

 

Kent had dropped the apple into the basket, and looked up at Chandler from his bent position.

 

“You don’t have to sir.”

 

Chandler was shucking off his jacket and folding it over one of the lower branches even as Kent spoke.

 

“I know Kent, I’m not offering if I didn’t mean it.”

 

Kent smiled, standing and looking at the empty tree.

 

“Thank you sir.”

 

Chandler bent down to take up the basket.

 

“You don’t always have to call me sir.”

 

Kent kept Chandler’s eye, skin flushing the same colour as the apple he’d just dropped into the basket.

 

“I know sir.”

 

Chandler looked down into the basket, there were at most fifteen apples in there, and a black shape.

 

“Kent, is that your notebook?”

 

Chandler was reaching into the basket to retrieve it when Kent himself reached in.

 

The apples were very red, and the afternoon was mild.

 

-

 

Ed looked like he was having the time of his life, surrounded by conspiracy theories and scribbled notes on local history. The only way that he could be more comfortable would have been a roaring fire in the cold hearth.

 

Miles and Judy had retired to their rented room, deeming it fit to keep a level of separation between themselves and the suspects of the case.

 

Chandler lent in forward half listening to Ed read from one of the pages of notes that he’d acquired and half listening to the discussion on the sofa, on which the three detective constables had squashed onto.

 

“But Gertrude’s alibi was given by Hector. I think we need to relook into this, because given what we know, I don’t think that we can trust Hector’s word with regard to Gertrude.”

 

Ed suddenly lent forward and waved Mansell quiet.

 

“Listen to this, Miss Baldwin down at the post office told me, the Red Barn estate, divided equally between Mary Marshall, or as she was known then ‘Fairchild’, Victor Marshall, formally Fairchild, Hector Fairchild and Gertrude Cropper. If we want a motive then we could do worse than the inheritance.”

 

Chandler nodded, the enthusiasm of the intrigue.

 

“And if they’re in cahoots with each other and no one knows that they’re related, and then of course they won’t be suspected.”

 

Kent knotted his fingers in the curls, which had escaped from their normal ordered state, tugging the mess of curls before dropping his hands into his lap.

 

“Are you seriously saying that we’ve come across a murderous incestuous relationship in a small Kentish village? What sort of cliché have we fallen into?”

 

Riley sighed, feeling the residual warmth of the pub start to dissipate.

 

“Kent, people do mad things for the people that they love. We’ve always known that.”

 

Mansell laughed, a little strained, but genuine. Laughing at the situation as opposed to with it.

 

“Bloody hell, let’s never stay in the country again.”

 

“It doesn’t turn you weird Mansell, it’s not contagious.”

 

Chandler coughed, drawing attention back to the case at hand.

 

“So, it’s a posited theory, Ed, you’ve collected the most evidence of the inheritance theory, tomorrow morning I’ll go and speak to Gertrude and you, Kent and Riley go and tell the Kent police in the morning. Mansell, you update Miles within reason.”

 

-

 

“Miss Cropper, may I have a word in private?”

 

Considering that the kitchen was empty apart from the two of them the question was one of politeness as opposed to need, but Gertrude nodded, just once, before turning back to clearing off the kitchen counters.

 

“Miss Cropper, I’ve been led to believe that you are in a relationship with your fellow employee, Mister Hector Fairchild.”

 

Gertrude slowed her movements, the repetitive circles of the flannel causing a squeak against the already clean surface.

 

“I can understand why you’d be unwilling to admit to such a thing, if our reports of Hector’s surname Fairchild was taken after his father’s second marriage. His initial surname being ‘Cropper’. Am I correct?”

 

Gertrude dropped the wash cloth into the sink, dried her hands against the seat of her trousers and looked up at Chandler, reaching up to untie her ponytail.

 

“You can’t prove that.”

 

“I can prove that you are biologically related. I cannot prove your intimate relationship, you’re correct. However, we might be able to prove your connection to Victor Marshall’s death. He was, after all, your other brother?”

 

She fiddled with the hairtie around her wrist as he spoke, occasionally darting her eyes up to see Chandler still standing by the doorway.

 

“Wasn’t he?”

 

Her eyes flickered from Chandler back to her wrists again.

 

And then the back door was pushed open, and Hector, with an apron on over his crimson uniform, pressed in, reaching one hands to brush his blonde curls from his face.

 

Before Chandler could fully register Hector’s entrance Gertrude had leapt forward toward the knife block, and had the tip of the sharp steel to Hector’s jugular, eyes catching Chandler’s and suddenly bright with something beyond fear.

 

Hector froze in his sister’s embrace.

 

“Gertie, Gertie my love, what are you doing?”

 

Gertrude’s voice was steady, and Chandler froze.

 

“Shut up Hector, I’ve killed one brother, why not the other?”

 

Hector was shaking with tears, but while one of his hands was attempting to prise the knife away from his neck the other was clutching Gertrude’s hand to his hip.

 

Whether or not Gertrude could have slashed the throat of her brother-come-lover Chandler wasn’t sure, but he still raised his hands as she started to tug her brother sideways, towards the door that he had come from.

 

“Get too close to me policeman and I’ll do it.”

 

Chandler could only hope that Ed, Kent and Riley had spoken to the police on duty, or that one of them had heard the commotion originating from the kitchen.

 

The door that Hector had entered through led to the bins, and the tiny employee car park.

 

Chandler jammed one foot into the open doorway.

 

“Gertrude, whatever you’re thinking, this isn’t the answer. The police already know.”

 

The knife was pressing deeper into Hector’s skin, and for a second Chandler could almost believe that he was going to break free, but the flurry of movement only pressed the two of them closer together, with one of Hector’s hands in Gertrude’s pocket, and the other bracketing the hand at his neck.

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Gertrude’s voice was steady as she pressed her brother into the car door.

 

“This is madness.”

 

An almost delicate line of blood was starting to drip down Hector’s neck as he turned in Gertrude’s embrace and pressed his lips to hers. The knife was still between them, and Chandler could only watch on with horror in his eyes as the pair of them held tight to the other. The same blood.

 

During the kiss the car lock bleeped once, and then Gertrude, with her own matching trickle of blood across her neck pushed Hector into the opening driver’s seat door and turned to Chandler with the knife threatening but loose in her grip.

 

As the car reversed Chandler seized forward towards Gertrude, whose struggles, while threatening, had lost their urgency and as the car pulled away she went momentarily lax, enough for Chandler to take the knife from her and hold her arms together behind her back.

 

“He won’t get away Gertrude.”

 

The blood was still painting her neck, he couldn’t tell if it came from the nick on her own neck or the mark that she had made against her brother’s.

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

-

 

The confession, when it came was entirely expected and calm. A detailed account of a plan having been devised for months, disabling the CCTV systematically in advance so its failure on the night wouldn’t look suspicious, making sure that the room would be empty by faking bookings, taking copies of the cottage keys, and providing the others alibi.

 

Ed had been correct, an elaborate plan to force the Red Barn Bed and Breakfast into their joint custody. With their parents dead, and their step-mother’s ambivalence towards them it was the Ted Barn itself that was all that was left of their childhood home, and they wanted it for themselves.

 

Gertrude only broke her composure when she was informed that Hector had been taken into custody at Dover.

 

Chandler could still remember her screams, and the fact there was still blood in her hair.

 

Miles and Judy, with the case having been cleared up with the confession had been given permission to leave, both electing to go home to their house, empty of children, to enjoy the last two days of their time off work.

 

“We’ll be fine without you until Tuesday.”

 

Miles had only laughed and had said that he’d be in by lunch time on Monday.

 

The Kent Constabulary had called a car for the rest of the team, to drop them back to the city, either in thanks for their help or in an attempt to rid them from the scene faster.

 

Mansell called shotgun once the car had pulled up, but had acquiesced to Riley’s  -“You are not a child Finlay, now get in the back”- and it had been Ed who moved to take the front seat.

 

Kent was just stepping forward to take the final backseat when Chandler spoke.

 

He’d driven himself up, not a matter of being unwilling to spend time with his team, but desiring his own space, at least for a while.

 

“Kent, do you want a lift?”

 

Kent only looked at the police car once before shrugging, and turning to follow Chandler.

 

“Cheers.”

 

They could have spoken, about the case, about the orchard. But they didn’t. There was plenty of time to discuss events later.

 

In the evening light the surround of London looked like smog, and London herself looked homely on the horizon, highlighted by the setting sun.

 

The sky was the colour of blood.

 

**THE END**

 


	4. Buchan’s Archival Records, with relation to the Lavender, James & Cropper/Fairchild cases:

Buchan’s Archival Records, with relation to the _Lavender_ , _James_ & _Cropper/Fairchild_ cases:

(Author’s bibliography.)

 

  * British Surnames, “Kent: Top Surnames in Kent from the 1881 Census”[ http://www.britishsurnames.co.uk/1881census/Kent](http://www.britishsurnames.co.uk/1881census/Kent) [accessed July 24th July]
  * Citizens Information Eire, “Types of Sentences”,[ http://www.citizensinformation.ie/en/justice/criminal_law/criminal_trial/types_of_sentences.html](http://www.citizensinformation.ie/en/justice/criminal_law/criminal_trial/types_of_sentences.html) [accessed July 9th, 2013]
  * Death Penalty Information Centre, “Execution List 2013”,[ http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/execution-list-2013](http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/execution-list-2013) [accessed July 6th, 2013]
  * Death Penalty News, “Texas Executes Richard Cobb”,[ http://deathpenaltynews.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/texas-executes-richard-cobb.html](http://deathpenaltynews.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/texas-executes-richard-cobb.html) [accessed July 6th, 2013]
  * Evil Eye Lounge, “Evil Eye”,[ http://www.evileyelounge.com/](http://www.evileyelounge.com/) [accessed July 16th, 2013]
  * Flanders, Judith. _The Invention of Murder: How the Victorians Revelled in Death and Detection and Created Modern Crime_. HarperPress, 2011
  * Gray, Drew D. _London's Shadows: The Dark Side of the Victorian City_. Continuum, 2010
  * Inside York, “York Castle Museum Prison Cells Exhibition”,[ http://www.insideyork.co.uk/guide/latest-news/castlemuseumcells.html](http://www.insideyork.co.uk/guide/latest-news/castlemuseumcells.html) [accessed July 14th, 2013]
  * International Centre for Alcohol Policies, “Minimum Age Limits Worldwide”,[ http://www.icap.org/Table/MinimumAgeLimitsWorldwide](http://www.icap.org/Table/MinimumAgeLimitsWorldwide) [accessed July 7th, 2013]
  * _Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper_ “The Late Child Murder At Road” July 22, 1860
  * North Yorkshire Police, “North Yorkshire Police”,[ http://www.northyorkshire.police.uk/](http://www.northyorkshire.police.uk/) [accessed July 15th, 2013]
  * Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, “Thomas Cream”,[ http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/54697](http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/54697) [accessed July 6th, 2013]
  * Seal, Graham. "The Robin Hood Principle: Folklore, History, and the Social Bandit." _Journal of Folklore Research_ 46, no. 1 (2009): 67-89.
  * Sexual Offenses Act 2003, “Sex with an adult relative”[ http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2003/42/part/1/crossheading/sex-with-an-adult-relative](http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2003/42/part/1/crossheading/sex-with-an-adult-relative) [accessed July 17th, 2013]
  * Sharpe, James. _Dick Turpin: The Myth of the English Highwayman_. Profile books, 2010
  * Smith, Philip. "Executing executions: Aesthetics, identity, and the problematic narratives of capital punishment ritual." _Theory and Society_ 25, no. 2 (1996): 235-261
  * Summerscale, Kate. _The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective_. Walker  & Company, 2008.
  * Texas Penal Code, “Section 19.03. Capital Murder” [ http://law.onecle.com/texas/penal/19.03.00.html](http://law.onecle.com/texas/penal/19.03.00.html) [accessed July 6th, 2013]
  * _The Bristol Mercury_ “The Late Mysterious Murder At Road, Near Frome” July 21, 1860
  * UK Crime Stats, “York City”,[ http://www.ukcrimestats.com/Neighbourhood/North_Yorkshire_Police/York_City](http://www.ukcrimestats.com/Neighbourhood/North_Yorkshire_Police/York_City) [accessed July 15th, 2013]
  * York Castle Museum, “Dick Turpin- hero or villain?”,[ http://www.yorkcastlemuseum.org.uk/Page/ViewCollection.aspx?CollectionId=24](http://www.yorkcastlemuseum.org.uk/Page/ViewCollection.aspx?CollectionId=24) [accessed July 14th, 2013]
  * Youtube, “Adam & The Ants: Stand And Deliver”[ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4B2a6l6wM2k](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4B2a6l6wM2k) [accessed July 15th, 2013]



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry! I had a bibliography written before I'd quite realised that I wasn't actually handing in my dissertation. But I thought that someone might be interested in my sources.)


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